wind champagned
against the breath
from Los Angeles to courts
it’s the sound of wood hitting skin
hello, dark juice
you can let a butt drop
my hand is a flame
that hit tasted like a prawn
the cuisine, curve
I’m going to be her lumber
a thicket there
chiaroscuro head
it does smell peppery
I think I remember
Urine Bob
the flat blade whips
she brings the bug down with
her eye
